Young Hearts and Old Bones
by Winterswild
Summary: It's just like old times, except that they're older now and things feel that much stronger in the twilight. Featuring mainly Piccolo, Gohan, Vegeta and Eighteen.
1. The Way We Were

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

I've decided to continue this - a story about the Z senshi in their twilight years.

They will feature more characters as it continues. Short chapters, no dialogue.

 **Young Hearts and Old Bones**

 **Chapter One**

 **They way we were**

The world was pulled from his feet, or so it felt, and his heels dragged in the damp soil as he fell backwards. Shards of broken rock dug ungracefully into his back and he bit at the pain that tried so hard to make itself known. Gohan might not train much these days, but the inherited strength of his forefathers felt like knives of fury as he reigned down his fists upon Piccolo. Damp soil and broken grass flew as they moved, releasing the fresh scent of a prospering land in the darkening sky. With each hit, jade skin broke, and with each kick, long legs buckled. Blonde hair burred past his vision and he wondered if Gohan went Super Saiyan because he needed to, or out of a long held, unwavering respect.

He didn't want to know the answer.

His mind wouldn't have much time to contemplate that grim thought as a dirt covered fist came through the air towards him, he fazed out and re-appeared behind Gohan, delivering a swift and rib breaking kick into the half Saiyan's kidney. The other man twisted unnaturally, air exhaling fast as the internal damage shifted his innards. Piccolo's countenance flickered, It was a little below the belt, but he was having to dig deep. Losing this match so quickly was as unacceptable as turning it down in the first place. No sooner had his foot landed though, did a fist drive through the muscles of his abdomen, and into his stomach. Any sense of remorse he briefly felt was now absent as blood gurgled in his throat and he tried not to gag, grimacing at the metallic taste on his tongue and the harrowing pain in his stomach. His head automatically went back as the pain hit and somehow, underneath the sensation of his body breaking, he could see the stars faintly in the twilight. He thought of Namek.

Back then, and now.

Back when they had adventure, and he was strong enough to make a difference. He pushed the thought down and whirled around, raising an elbow to the other man's face. It didn't collide. Instead, his momentum carried him too far and he stumbled, feet sinking in the damp dirt. His face then met the ground in undignified surprise, and the dirt tasted like everything and nothing all at once as it rammed into his teeth. The blow to his back had been significant, and the crunching of bone must have made Gohan falter because he left Piccolo to lie there for a moment. The Namek's reserves were now as unreachable as his youth and his thighs and arms burned in an acid protest. Now his teeth were ringing. It started to rain.

The cold water felt sharp on the back of his head, the skin tingling as it fell more rapidly. His chest was bleeding now, he could feel the sting of the dirt meeting and mingling with open wounds. He even feel the slow drip of cooling violet blood as it pooled in the curve of his ear. Yet all he could hear was the rain as it poured down. The moment was over, and Piccolo picked himself up, wet gi clinging to his frame. The mixture of water, sweat, blood and soil made him feel like he was back on Namek, fighting Frieza and pulling Goku's ridiculously heavy frame out of the water. Gohan had been so small and innocent with his bowl cut hair and relentless determination. Now he stood, orange gi and blonde hair soaked through, all happiness drained. Piccolo could see that the other man was done, but Piccolo wasn't. Red blood had snaked its way down the half Saiyan's collar bone and was darkening the blue undershirt.

He had lost Videl last year, and Piccolo could see her wedding ring on a chain around his neck

Gohan's boot flashed in Piccolo's dark eyes and he just avoided the kick, craning his neck backwards. He brought his hand up, emerald fingers going around the other man's ankle, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he dug his talons in. Gohan lost his perch and sailed through the air as the Namek through him, not gently, and straight into the trunk of an old acer tree. His Saiyan boy went through the bark, and the old structure groaned as it toppled over. Whatever brave birds had remained beneath the leaves during their fight, now flew off in uncoordinated panic. The great red tree had probably been there for an age already, it had seen so much and now it just fell, like at the end it was nothing at all. Gohan's skin smelled like sap now as his fists came in a flurry. The rain was falling heavier, and the Namek found it impossible to keep his eyes open long enough to track the onslaught. He tried to blink but every time he did, he was hit. And each hit felt like the last one.

He briefly wondered if he would be the last one.

Gohan had little lines written in the corners of his eyes, and Piccolo knew that there was grey sitting at the temples under that shock of blonde hair. The boyish handsomeness though, that remained, no doubt still breaking hearts. He let the fists come, and the pink of his arms was starting to go red from the abuse, lining with violet as the skin tore. It was too much, but he wouldn't say, Gohan had always thought him stronger than he really was. A hero worship that he never really grew out of. Even when the Saiyan's surpassed him in strength, and he became back up, and then when he became a bystander. The pain of that had lasted a long time, and even now he would wake up and forget. For a moment when he opened his eyes, he forgot how useless he had become. He couldn't even recall now when that moment had come, and passed. But now it was done.

His days of fighting the enemy were now a fantasy story to tell children at bedtime.

Gohan must have noticed the bruising build up on Piccolo's arms and he pulled back, instead choosing to kick those long legs from under the Namek. For the third time, Piccolo's back hit the ground and old scratches screamed in protest. His arms fell to the side and throbbed in a numbness that told of terrible pain to come. He didn't heal as well as he did when he was young. The gi felt clingy and cold against his skin as it continued to soak up the rain. The beat of the drops echoed in the valley all around him. His eyes were half closed, he knew that Gohan might see it and stop soon, but it was dark. The air was chilled in that damp way and the heavens pelted his face without remorse. He hadn't won a match against Gohan in so long it was almost pointless to remember it. But it still hurt like a hollowing of his insides, every time.

It would hurt more when he did finally win, when Gohan was too old to fight well anymore.

That time would come sooner than they'd realise. He could already hear the faltering heartbeat sometimes, and the quick breaths that came with age. The half Saiyan's heart seemed healthy now as it thumped furiously, in the heat of battle, and Piccolo fancied that he could hear the blood rushing through the younger man's veins. His body was aching fiercely, now so filled with acid that when he moved the limbs they were seizing up. A clawed hand slipped in the wet ground, and he felt the grit moving to lodge itself under his talons. An urge to vomit crawled in the top of his stomach but he ignored it. He stumbled to stand and Gohan was incredulous, but not entirely surprised. The half Saiyan came at him, and Piccolo tried to raise his hands but they wouldn't move any higher than his chest. Gohan realised too late as his fist crashed into the side of Piccolo's face and he heard the cheek bone crush.

Piccolo fell to the ground for the last time, his body thudding in a wet slap. Gohan pulled back in shock and his golden hair fell, now black and wet against his face. His dark brown eyes went wide. Piccolo caught the panicked look as he fell but he couldn't keep his eyes open now as he lay in the disrupted earth. It was so cold. The water was now sitting atop the soil like a little river and he was almost breathing it in through one nostril. The pain in his face and skull was incredible and the blood was running freely down the curve of his nose and dripping into the puddle of rain. If it weren't so dark, the water would be violet now. Through the pain lacing in the fibres of his body and the deep ache, even through incredible sense of defeat, he knew that he would recover. The sickness was back.

He would live.

Gohan knelt down, one orange clothed knee sinking as he did. He knew that Piccolo would be alright but the concern was still overwhelming. The thought of losing his friend felt unbearable. The weren't just friends, it was like he was in love, the same uncompromising, unconditional love he felt for his daughter. And maybe at one time, something more. The only solace he took from the knowledge that old age was fast approaching, was that the Namek would naturally outlive him.

He never once considered that Piccolo didn't want to.

 **Finish.**


	2. The Way We Are

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

Vegeta, Eighteen and other characters will appear in later chapters.

 **Young Hearts and Old Bones**

 **Chapter Two**

 **The way we are**

Pale morning light wavered against the walls, swaying with the curtains in the breeze. Piccolo's eyes opened but barely, and his pupils fought against the light. He recognised the room, it was one of the pleasantly neutral spare rooms in Gohan's modest home. He closed his eyes again and breathed in; the scent of sap, faint flowers and dew felt so familiar as to be melodic. Keen ears picked up the distant clatter of kitchen utensils and the hum of a tenor, and the sound made him smirk. Gohan had taken him home before, either not trusting the Namek to heal in the confines of his waterfall, or because he was lonely. Piccolo suspected it may be a combination of both. It was unnecessary, his bones and tissues would knit together as well as they ever did, whether he was cocooned in cotton or if Gohan had left him face down in the dirt and soil, bloodied and broken. Such is the curse of being Namekian.

He sat up in the bedclothes and they slid down his chest. The cuts and scrapes were still present and he traced a finger over the jagged violet tinged skin. The injured bones beneath had taken precedence, he supposed. Climbing out of bed hurt a little, kind of like the pains Videl had complained of, _arthritis,_ if he recalled correctly. Like his bones were protesting about the weight he had just shoved upon them. He used to weigh more.

His gi pants were torn, streaked with dried mud and he felt somewhat remorseful about the white bed sheets being white no longer. Videl would have playfully teased him about it, if she had still been around. He padded slowly to the adjoining bathroom and oddly it felt a little like home. The tiles felt surprisingly cold against the souls of his feet and he almost picked up his foot to curl his toes inwards. He hadn't noticed that Gohan had removed his shoes. The sink ahead was simple but efficient, the walls a pale blue and a painted canvas of the ocean with colourful boats bobbing on the false sea spanned the gap between the mirror and the shower. Piccolo leaned down and turned the faucet delicately, his strong fingers always struggled with these fiddly human tasks. Splashing water onto his face, he scrubbed the dirt and dried blood from his cheeks, feeling the sharpness of his cheekbones under his skin. Gohan had commented that the weight loss in his face almost made him look even younger, unlike humans, who could look hollow and gaunt. _Elf like_ , were Gohan's exact words. Piccolo didn't really appreciate the comparison.

The pain of defeat made itself known as he looked in the mirror, seeing the evidence of slower healing than he was used to. He was still broad, still trained constantly and remained strong, but the underlying structure was betraying him. His mind wasn't as strong, too much time around all these humans perhaps. He craved sleep, rest, meditation and herbal tea. Even read a book or two from Dende's many collections, though he would adamantly deny it if asked. The Kami often asked him to the Lookout with some barely legitimate request, and Piccolo always indulged him. The young Namek still felt like a child to him, but he had grown into an admirable man, who was wise well beyond his years. He materialised a new gi, and although he wasn't fastidiously clean, it would do until he reached the waterfall.

He thought back to the fight, felt the crushing blow driving through his rib cage and a foot into his spine. How Gohan effortlessly crushed him. Gohan, who was ageing gracefully, who hadn't fought in years, who's main concern was when Pan would be visiting and would she bring the kids when she did. He flinched as sharp pain beat in his skull, the headache brewing reminded him not to think too deeply. Jade fingers grasped the small handle for the bathroom's cabinet door and pulled it open gently. A cacophony of pills and medications, balms and salves, greeted him in unfamiliar packaging. Another symptom of growing older, he wondered. He searched for the one Gohan had picked out before, he had known for some time that the Namek suffered from migraines but had the sense not to really discuss it. He picked out the small white bottle with a grey label and ripped the cap off, swallowed two with some water from the faucet and put the unsealed bottle back. Gohan was still humming downstairs, and he could smell spiced tea.

For a brief moment he did consider going downstairs, going to sit with his old student on one of those precarious pine chairs, sipping tea whilst he listened to Gohan's gentle tones. Looking at the deepening creases around his eyes and mouth, listen to him complain about Piccolo's lack of wrinkles. He thought of Videl's ring, sparkling in the moonlight, and the pain so clearly evident in Gohan's eyes. Haunted. His own embarrassment, of not only being defeated so brutally, but knowing that he would outlive all those who were stronger than him, and the legacy of his meaningless existence would be forever tangible, seemed to pale in comparison. Vegeta grasped this more than Gohan, the guilt, and knowing, Piccolo could see it in the deep black eyes of the smaller, older Saiyan. Gohan saw the bright side in almost everything, despite his own pain, and although he didn't understand, the Namek did love him for it. He did love him.

Piccolo walked back into the bedroom and to the window, glancing down to the pretty garden below. He thought again of going downstairs, joining Gohan for tea like the younger man so obviously wanted. After all this time, he still didn't feel comfortable. Like Videl was still there, watching. Only she knew more now, could see through Piccolo and into his soul, into his shadows. He felt, more than heard, Gohan arrive in the doorway behind him but he didn't turn around. The half Saiyan smiled sadly, knowing that his friend would be desperate to jump out of the window and put distance between himself and anything human, unfamiliar, or comfortable. Even after all these years. He leaned against the doorway and listened to the turning thoughts in the other man's head. Absently, he rubbed one of the many bruises on his arm; Piccolo had fought as viciously as ever.

The Namek jumped swiftly, and landed in the garden gracefully. Gohan was disappointed, but not surprised. Even in the silence he knew that they would see eachother again, later in the week perhaps, for tea. After he visited the graves of his mother and Videl. Piccolo had a way of knowing when he was needed.

 **Until next time.**


	3. The Way We Fall

**Young Hearts and Old Bones**

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z or any of its characters

Warning: Dark themes, implied depression.

 **Chapter Three**

 **The way we fall**

Bulma's headstone was simple but beautiful, it even had a quiet poignance that she lacked in life and Vegeta had mixed feelings about that. Would she like it? A part of him hoped that her spirit might even be enraged at it, that perhaps it would encourage a tantrum so catastrophic it would bridge the gap between them. A hundred years ago he would have scoffed at such a thought, might even feel disgusted with himself. He doesn't really feel such things these days. Or anything at all, really.

One tanned, scuffed but strong hand brushed the stone of the tiny, recently cut grass littering the grey marble. The clouds were heavy and damp above him, though the moisture didn't affect his raised hair in the slightest. His widows peak had receded a little over the last decade or so, but not alarmingly so, though his black locks were now heavily peppered with white. Drops of rain, so reminiscent of the tears that he had once shed here all that time ago, ones that he struggled to shed now, landed softly on the stones lined up ahead of him. It had been decades.

He held back a groan as he stood, choosing to believe that it was an adopted human habit rather than evidence of his advancing age. The dark suit was becoming more damp as the seconds crawled by, the fabric growing increasingly uncomfortable, and he grumbled a little. She would have appreciated the effort, _classy_ , she would have said. Clouds lay dark above his head and he looked up into the sky, thinking of those who had been left behind, buried deep beneath him in the dirt. Gohan would arrive soon, and he had no intention of meeting with the melancholy boy today; he was an ever present reminder of the legacy of their race, a legacy that had not been bestowed upon his own son. _Kakarot wins again._ Trunks' grave lay just in his periphery and he swallowed a rare, raw pain. He wouldn't stand before his son's headstone, and sometimes refused to even look at it. Why hadn't he inherited the long life? Could he not have given the rest of his own years to his boy?

Bra had a way of putting his heart to rest when it swelled in this horror and sorrow, but this day he kept out of the sun; made sure he felt it. Out of honor, out of respect, maybe even just out of self pity. The energy of Kakarot's offspring neared and he sighed. Despite his own intentions, he had grown an affection for the boy. Projected love that no longer had a home, perhaps. They had known each other a long time now, and sometimes they did spend the afternoon together, nursing their loss without words or talking fondly of the past. Sometimes sparring. But not today.

Today, he was needed elsewhere. His friendship with the Namek had taken a long time to develop, in fact nearly half a century had gone by before he could even call it such a thing. The jade warrior had remained strong, and he had respected that, but the past few years had taken their toll. He had not lost Gohan yet, as he had lost so many already, but he would. The boy was still strong, youthful and energetic but his human side was beginning to show and it was only a matter of time. It may even be a long time, but Vegeta knew, more than any of them did just how much time the Namek had left. Gohan passing would only be a sad drop in a mourning ocean; a thousand years to feel his death. Like he would feel his own family's passing for another century or two to come.

The Namekian would be meditating somewhere, no doubt, long legs crossed and cape blowing in the wind. It was comforting, in a way, like seeing Bra's wide smile and flowing teal hair as she ran to hug him tightly every time. Vegeta smiled to himself at the memory, at the warmth that she naturally had since the day she had been born. He lived for her, he supposed, and his grandchildren, all four of them. The clouds were darkening rapidly and he took his leave, allowing Gohan to have his own moments in the cemetery that Bulma had paid a fortune for. _Such a practical woman._

Gohan glanced at the departing Saiyan as he landed, chuckling at his surly countenance under his breath. _Not today then._

Vegeta headed to the forest that Piccolo had more or less made his own, and although he had spent more and more time on the Lookout in recent years, Dende had mentioned in passing that his visits were growing fewer. The smaller Namekian had been worried, his every feature betraying his concern in an Earthly sort of language that Vegeta had learned to read. Given a choice, he would rather not turn up in a human suit, knowing that Piccolo would gleefully take the piss, but he had not intended to visit. The feeling had come upon him; how close they were now.

Rain pelted the fabric as he flew, cutting with the breeze as it chilled his thick skin. Winter had finally hit, a little later than normal, Bra had been complaining a great deal about the summer being 'a million miles away'. Vegeta frowned as he grew closer, fine lines and creases beginning to show on his tanned skin as he did, he couldn't sense Piccolo at the waterfall. He was some distance to the East and the Saiyan adjusted his course, if he was being honest he was oddly curious and grateful for the pique of interest.

Great rocks came into view as he neared the ocean, colossal stones towering above the water, in a natural beauty that he had learned to love about this small planet. Sea salt sprayed up and over the lower rocks below the cliff that his dress shoes touched down upon. The scent was refreshing, and as he noted a lack of beach or any real human footprint he allowed a small smile at the scene. It was short lived. The feeling that brought him here was fading and it felt odd, growling, he concentrated harder than he had in a long while, searching for the Namek. Brooding clouds above had cast shadow over the cliff, and the sea was a deep, dark endless grey in its tossing reflection. He frowned again, not seeing much except for crashing waves, even most of the wildlife had taken its leave of this dark and turbulent place. A part of him wondered if he should respect the Namek's wishes, he clearly didn't want to be found. In the past somewhere, a version of him would.

Stepping out of his shoes, he walked to the cliff edge, discarding his suit jacket as he did. Strong muscles stretched the white shirt to an obnoxious point but feeling the chill, he left it on, unbuttoning it a little and pulling the tie loose. Black socks soaked unhelpfully in the moisture from the rock beneath and he inhaled deeply, reaching into the sea with his mind. He dived in.

Piccolo felt Vegeta arrive but he didn't give it much mind. His Chi was so low now that he most likely felt like a part of the sea life all around him. Hooded dark red eyes looked on through the great wall of water ahead, so deep now that he couldn't see much of anything, except a glimmer of the light breaking through the storm brewing above. He watched the dark grey, heavy with salt, wavering and sank into the feeling of it pushing him further down. It was comforting, in a way. The gi moved with him, its purple looking black against the dim green of his skin. He let his arms drift, his legs detach almost, as if they knew they wouldn't have a use anymore. Penetrating cold was clawing its way deeper, inside to flood his bones, the lack of body fat making its intentions effortless. Gohan had found his lack of natural ability to float entertaining, he wondered if he'd find it funny now. His connection to the boy was as cut off as he could make it, muffled and distorted, like being underwater. If he hadn't been so deep, so cold and so tired, he would have laughed at the irony.

Vegeta swam with his Chi to propel him and he had to swim a considerable distance out, going much further down than he had expected. His training had remained as constant as ever, and he was quietly grateful as he shoved water backwards with little effort. Energy was everywhere and nowhere, and none of it helpful at all. He stopped for a moment, searching with vision inhibited by the darkness and becoming typically, and quickly, angry. _What the fuck are you doing Namek?_

The words hit Piccolo's mind sharply, and warmly, like a familiar heat surging in his skull. It was unpleasant, and if he had the energy left to care, unwelcome. He exhaled the last of his lungs in surprise and let his eyes fall closed. His Chi was so low now that he wondered if the pressure would finally start its work on his frame, he wondered if it would be exponential in its attack. Once it started, would it just be ever increasing until it crushed him? Would it even crush him? He had never felt so deeply cold.

Vegeta's eyes widened as he spotted the sign he was looking for, air bubbles ascending ahead. He swam viciously downwards, and as he neared the Namek he could feel the lifeforce there diminishing. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was confused, expecting Gohan to already be here. He kicked back before he went too far, his shirt billowing everywhere with the water as he moved and tie hanging loosely. He had already been searching for several minutes, five maybe, and even as a Saiyan he didn't have long before his lungs would start to burn.

Piccolo's were already on fire, the pain lacerating in its fury but he almost enjoyed pushing away the sensation, wondering how much longer it would last before his body was forced to act. Would his need to survive beat the pressure? He thought of Gohan, and how he would feel. Maybe he would never know, and his disappearance would just be another piece of history in the book of the boy's long life, another soul lost. But he knew better, his heart would break. He opened his eyes slightly, as if considering coming up to the surface but he already knew it was likely too late. His lungs began to contract painfully. He couldn't see Vegeta floating just before him, didn't feel the strong grip digging into his biceps. The vastness was taking him, and although he was sure he hadn't intended for it to, it did anyway.

The Saiyan's eyes were wide and fierce, and he swore internally as he raced through his options. He could feel the Namek's mind darkening, feel the Chi dissipating into the water in forgotten rivulets. From this depth it would take more than a minute to reach the surface, he couldn't just fly up fast, Piccolo's body might not withstand the pressure change. He squinted his ebony eyes in the dimness, struggling to see his charge just an arm's length away. The Namek looked so peaceful, and Vegeta felt his own heart clench in pain, anger and empathy. _Piccolo._

Piccolo's eyes shot open, and with the last of his remaining energy he opened his mouth as his chest convulsed. Vegeta had never thought as quickly in his long life, and he rammed his mouth against the Namek's open lips, exhaling deeply. Piccolo's lungs received it, unwillingly and with a little of the ocean, but it might be enough. The Saiyan detached, being sure to close the jade jaw and seal a hand over his mouth. He wasn't sure if it was technically worse to let him breath in water or not breath at all, was drowning the same as suffocating? He dismissed the thought. Swimming upwards quickly, with one arm around the Namek's chest and one hand keeping jade lips closed, he felt the water become warmer.

It was an impossibly long time, and his turmoil must have caused a fuss because he could feel Gohan's Chi barrelling towards them from the cemetery in the city. He could feel Piccolo tossing his head left and right in his belligerent struggle, and felt the confusion and hysteria build in his thrashing charge. The lack of oxygen was making him act illogically, but they were so close to the surface, beyond the risks of pressure now. Vegeta raised his Chi to finish the last leg quickly but swore, losing the last of his own precious air, as Piccolo's sharp canines bit deep into his palm.

He dropped the Namek momentarily, more surprised than hurt and grabbed him quickly, but not before Piccolo inhaled gulps of the sea's thick water. _Looks like it didn't matter after all._ Saiyan hands landed on the taller warrior, but Piccolo fought back, lacking in Chi but apparently fluent in blind panic and skill. He was delirious, pulling the ocean inside his lungs, convulsing and Vegeta had almost run out of time, he needed air as well. The situation had cascaded so quickly, he had approached this all wrong. He didn't have much time to analyse how he could have done things differently; Gohan came crashing into the water in Super Saiyan form and put an end to the chaos down below. He grabbed both of them, Vegeta scowled, nonplussed at the impromptu rescue but grateful nonetheless. Both were hauled onto the rocks, and Vegeta gasped in air dramatically, he hadn't really been in any danger but it had scared him how close it had come to him staying down there, against his better judgment. Did he really care that much?

Gohan shook the Namek, shouting his name. Jade skin was so deathly cold, and looked pallid in the light shed emanating from his Super Saiyan form. Vegeta looked on, feeling helpless and idiotic, _as if pulling someone from the ocean is a difficult feat_. Bulma's voice came floating in his mind, one of the many memories that usually lived, lost somewhere in the depths. _It might not be in battle Vegeta, in fact I hope it isn't, it'll probably be your heart that you die for, you know._ She had always thought him so compassionate, and he had always thought she was wrong.

Gohan was pumping Piccolo's chest, too easily breaking cartilage and counting breathlessly. Breathing into his mouth twice, pumping thirty times, breathing hard, pumping, breathing, crying.

Vegeta pushed him out of the way unapologetically, remembering something and not really thinking it through or voicing it out loud. He breathed into Piccolo's open mouth, ignoring the feel of his cold, damp lips. He breathed in ten times, pressed his chest twice and much harder, too hard perhaps. Ten more times, two compresses and on the first next breath, Piccolo coughed warm, salty liquid back into Vegeta's face. Gohan's relief was audible and Vegeta laughed, it was empty but he meant it. The half Saiyan pushed his former mentor into a sitting position so he could clear his lungs. Jade eyelids were hooded and now violet, along with his cheeks, lips and chest where it would bruise later. His mind cleared a little, and he could hear his own heavy breathing against the crashing of the ocean behind him. Nearly dry blonde hair bobbed around in his eyes and he felt something so sick and deep he couldn't name it. Vegeta was on his knees just behind Gohan, thick hair wet and stuck to his forehead, clothes sodden and ripped. The younger half Saiyan hugged him hard and Piccolo coughed, letting him. Gohan's jeans were scuffed and his blue t-shirt had two words on it but for the life of him he couldn't see what they were. Both Saiyans looked odd to him in regular clothes, wet and breathing hard. _How peculiar._

He looked back up at Vegeta, who was still staring with something unreachable in his eyes, like he knew, like he cared, but he didn't. The same eyes he had seen down below, in the water, but they had been strong and fierce and full of feeling. Love. Had it been love? Would he even recognise it?

Vegeta stood up, relief now giving way to tiredness and an odd sensation, maybe because it was such a strange event. A part of him thought it was familiar in some way, and a memory of Broly attacking, the Namek screaming in his face whilst violet blood dripped onto his skin, telling him to get a grip flashed in his mind. _We're even now_. He wanted it to be true, but they weren't, because he would do it again and again. His chest felt clammy.

Piccolo opened his mouth, he had half intended to say thank you, but no sound came out. He didn't even mouth it.

Vegeta heard it anyway.

 **Until next time.**

 **W.**


	4. The way we hide

**Young Hearts and Old Bones**

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z or any of its characters

 **Chapter Four**

 **The way we hide**

The fallout from that particular incident had been significantly more dramatic than Piccolo had anticipated. Not that he had imagined any actual consequences, hadn't considered anything beyond how far he could sink and for how long he could stay there. Would he be able to swim back up to the surface in time or would the universe decide that his time had finally arrived? It was just a theory, a question that went unanswered, and it wasn't the first time he had ventured out into the dark, the cold, or the deep looking for that conclusion. To say that Gohan was obsessively furious would have been an understatement. Vegeta had clearly told the half Saiyan exactly what he wanted to know and even though he probably had no right, Piccolo felt betrayed and resentful.

The younger man had wasted no time at all attempting to imprison him in his beige home, smothering him in all its blandness, herbal tea and human niceties. Twenty four hours ago he had been sinking, drifting away into an abyss so blissful and empty he could have stayed there forever. And now, here he was sitting at a wooden table in a neutral, square room with slowly knitting bones and a sore throat, listening to Gohan's angry breathing. Guilt. That would be the primary reason why he was sitting here allowing this to continue. The secondary reason would be that he felt weak and tired, and third? He wasn't sure if he cared enough to leave, or stay, or even form a coherent response.

Gohan poured chopped potatoes into a pan and set it to simmer, thinking and staring angrily into the white kitchen tiles lining the wall as he did. He could feel Piccolo sitting awkwardly behind him, elbows tucked in and back too straight, looking bitterly at the back of his head. The terror had given way to relief, which had made way for confusion and had finally settled uncomfortably in a chasm of unadulterated fury. _How dare he? How could he?_ He had asked himself, and Piccolo, over and over. No one seemed to have an answer. Videl had once, when he had told her impatiently that Piccolo was avoiding him and he didn't know why, years ago. She had whirled round at him, dark brunette hair flying everywhere and blue eyes flashing with frustration, he had seen and chosen not to deal with the jealousy there. _'I don't know Gohan. I haven't done a degree in Namekian psychology. Do you?!"_

It was a comment that cropped up in his ramblings from time to time, more often than it should really. What did he know about Namekian psychology? He had spent a lifetime applying human systems to Piccolo and coming up blank. He sighed, stirring the white fish and vegetables in a garlic and white wine sauce. Videl had taught him many things, cooking being one of them. Absently, he thought of the strong scent of the food and he knew for a fact that Piccolo would be finding it abhorrent. He felt bad, but not bad enough to openly acknowledge it. He heard the Namek stand, heard an involuntary cough, and light footsteps travelling up the stairs.

Piccolo had seriously contemplated leaving but he had promised Gohan that he would stay for two days. Over some invented concern about drowning and liquid in his lungs. Apart from a wounded ego and some crushed ribs, courtesy of two Saiyans hammering into it, he physically felt fine. It would heal, almost flawlessly no doubt. The door to the bedroom Gohan had unofficially given him creaked as it opened, and he was grateful for the cool pleasant air passing through the window that he always kept open just in case. The breeze touched his skin and he shivered, touched by the memory of Vegeta's face, stern and concerned ahead of him in the dim light of the ocean's deep. He blinked it away, suddenly and uncharacteristically, closing the window loudly. With eyes closed, he leaned against the window's frame and fought back the nausea stirring in his stomach; the taste of sea salt on his tongue.

A part of him missed the rush, the adrenaline had been so intoxicating, and then the floating, fading into nothing. Like battle, but so much more involved and private. One day it would be too much, he might go too far and there would be no rescue, but he didn't mind. How Vegeta had sensed him, found him, and almost pulled him out had been so unlikely as to be suspicious. Or had he been so careful to fall from Gohan's vision that he had forgotten about the Saiyan Prince's keen perception? He made a note, morbidly, not to make the same mistake next time.

Unbeknownst to him, Vegeta had already considered that the Namek would make alterations to his movements to avoid detection next time. He was older, wiser and had far more life experience than the Earth borne Namek, Kami's memories or not, and already knew well the rabbit hole Piccolo was busy burying into. How deep it goes. He kicked the gravity chamber up a notch and tried to focus, the humiliation of being caught unawares by a frantic Namek, in water not deep enough to drown a Saiyan child, weighed heavily on his pride.

Piccolo sat on the floor and crossed his legs and although meditating without his turban and cape wasn't ideal, he persevered. If he left the little house Gohan would likely give himself an aneurysm and he was already losing patience for the other man's bothersome worrying. The carpet felt soft, and he closed his mind, levitating above it, pouring all of his remaining energy into creating peace. The image of Vegeta's face again, distorted in a deep blue hue, crawled its way into his vision and he pushed it away. Then Gohan, grabbing Piccolo in strong, sure hands, vivid green eyes narrowed in concern, and all that irrational fear falling away. He dropped to the floor ungracefully. He hadn't been able to meditate well, save the odd occasion, for months and he guessed he could add this to the long list of reasons why not. It might even be a year now. And certainly years since he did it every day. He leaned back against the wall miserably, the plaster unforgiving and hard against his skull. Jade eyes closed, reveling in self pity and hating it, but doing it anyway.

Gohan sat down with his dinner, almost throwing it on the table. His reliable appetite was a little lackluster but he shovelled in a few mouthfuls for his sanity's sake whilst he thought. He heard Piccolo close the window, heard another bang, maybe him jumping? He fought the urge to go up and check, knowing it would not be well received. It was only a matter of time before his guest left of his own accord anyway, Gohan was aware that he had almost no influence over the surly Namekian at the best of times. The fact he was using emotional blackmail to keep him here for a day or two was not lost on either of them, and he ran a guilty hand through a greying temple; the control gave him a shiver of pleasure that he felt ashamed of. Standing abruptly, he poured boiled kettle water into a mug, adding a tea bag and a spoon of sugar, and headed upstairs.

A knock on the door woke Piccolo, who hadn't even been aware that he'd fallen asleep, and he coughed but didn't respond.

Gohan pushed the door open, not waiting for a proper response. All that anger he'd been nursing so fervently dissipated quickly, falling to the pit of his stomach as he looked at his former mentor. Piccolo was seated with his back propped against the wall, long legs stretched out so far the man's bare ankles lay below the bed frame. His hands hung loosely in his lap and he avoided looking at Gohan, no real acknowledgment, just staring ahead definitely. The half Saiyan moved towards his friend, choosing to sit on the bed facing him, sock covered feet planted firmly on the outside of each of Piccolo's calves. The cup was presented with a soft smile, and Gohan tried not to convey his intense concern through chai scented steam.

The sun was setting now, casting a low, warm glow in through the window, and birds were fluttering home. In this light the half Saiyan thought Piccolo's skin lit up beautifully, his perfect complexion soaking up the rays, looking no older than maybe thirty years old. The Namek didn't take the cup, instead just looking at his old student, gaze filled with annoyance. But Gohan was patient, decades of teaching mixing with his affection, he would win this battle. And Piccolo knew it. What he didn't know, but suspected, was that Gohan had no intention of letting him leave. Not this time.

He placed the warmed cup on the bedside table and stood, placing tired hands on his hips and sighing. As he left, trying not to storm out, he told Piccolo that he would run a bath. He spoke so gently that it irritated the Namek, he didn't deserve Gohan's kindness and even though it was well meant, he'd prefer something more raw. Anger, fighting, anything. The sound of running water rushed along his long ears and slowly, petulantly even, he pushed himself up the wall. The strong scent of salt, seaweed and blood was still heavy on his skin, and even though he much preferred the waterfall's soothing caress, the bath would do.

Steam filled the room nicely, clearing sinuses he hadn't even realised were congested. The bath did not look quite big enough, ordinarily he'd complain but Gohan was in a peculiar mood and he didn't want to provoke an argument, which in itself made him laugh. Didn't he want a fight? The purple gi fell to the floor gracefully and he turned the tap, water tapering off into the tub. Lifting a delicate foot, he dipped his claws in and then plunged to the bottom. It was incredibly hot. He hissed without realising, and almost withdrew it. It wasn't the same as falling in the ocean but it fed the habit, a little. Emerald skin was turning violet quickly.

 _Gohan wouldn't like this_. He sighed, irritated that the thought had even entered his mind. His claws struggled with turning the cold tap on and off, but it gave way without him causing too much damage, eventually. He stepped in, it was still hot enough to sting but nothing too dramatic. Water climbed up his chest to just about cover his upper arms, knees remained bent but it wasn't totally unpleasant, snug maybe. Aching skin soothed under the water, and he felt the gentle tingle of something, a salt or something that Gohan had added. Colourful bottles were dotted around the tub and he picked one up, looking closely at the thick amber liquid inside, slowing viscously as he tipped it. Unscrewing the cap was awkward, but worth it. The scent was soft, oaky even. Another container was opened, this time revealing a dark brown goo. It smelled chocolatey and he fondly remembered Pan's single minded obsession with the substance as a toddler. He hadn't even thought of that, for decades, and how quickly the memory was here to stay. Distracted, the open bottle brushed his upturned nose and he reared his head back, the liquid having gotten on his face and up one nostril. He must have made a surprised sound because Gohan knocked on the door, making him drop the bottle into the water.

No answer came, and so Gohan pushed the door open and bit his lip at the sight before him. All the scrambling to find the tiny bottle had created bubbles in the water and a sweet, chocolate aroma filled the bathroom. The half Saiyan knew immediately what had occurred and he laughed, heartily, for the first time in days. Piccolo was horrified, but the sound was so welcome he couldn't help but chuckle faintly under his breath. Violet tinged cheeks and the small smile, fangs poking out, made Gohan's heart clench. He stepped into the room, confident that the bubbles would provide his guest with enough modesty to satisfy social norms and grabbed a new sponge, he passed it to Piccolo, along with another one of those small bottles.

"I got this the other day, I thought you'd like it"

Piccolo didn't know how to respond, or even understand why Gohan would purchase such a thing for him. Nearly a hundred years had passed though and he had learned to say thank you, even appreciated the gesture but couldn't help but wonder if the younger man was projecting. It made him feel odd. He nodded his thanks anyway and opened it, knowing that was the next expected step in these situations. Gohan watched his guest inhale the gentle scent of sweet orange and vanilla and his eyes wandered to the red pink muscles of the man's upper abdomen. Gohan glanced away, realising that the Namek was now sat upright and unknowingly baring most of his abdomen above the dissipating bubbles. His waist was narrower than he remembered, and although strong pectorals still stood confidently, he couldn't help but notice the muscle loss. Gohan sat down on the tiled shelf next to the bath, pale trousers feeling a little damp with the steam.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The Namek looked at Gohan directly and inhaled deeply. A part of him wondered if he had the boldness to wash himself whilst they spoke. Nearly a century's worth of familiarity, and the answer was a resounding no. He leaned back and regarded his old student. Maybe it was time to give in at least a little. He opened his mouth, with all the intention in the world but steam filled it and no words came out.

 _Or maybe not._ The half Saiyan smiled wryly, for Piccolo that was so nearly a 'oh go on then'.

"Well, I'd like to talk, after you're finished." _Don't make me beg._

He nodded, giving the other man what he wanted may accelerate the return to his precious forest. It may even alleviate a little of the constant guilt.

Gohan left Piccolo to finish up in the bath, knowing the Namek would be anxious to be clean again. He had been thinking deeply for a while and he had come to several conclusions, possibly incorrect ones, but he liked to think that they were well considered. He was expecting the Namek to behave a certain way, they were both generations old in human terms, but then, Piccolo wasn't human, he was Namekian. One that had always seemed so intelligent, strategic and strong. Had he confused that with maturity? Piccolo's behaviour did reflect a stoic, wise warrior and an excellent teacher. It also still came across as stunted, misunderstood and awkward. Sure he laughed now, occasionally, and he had mellowed considerably since the angry young man who had hurled a child into the wilderness to survive on his own. He continued thinking, making a mental note to speak to Dende about it, perhaps the Kami would have some insight.

Stalkerlike, he caught Piccolo leaving the bathroom, knowing the Namek would slope off given the slightest opportunity. A newly created outfit hung from his clean skin, and he smelled fresh and faintly sweet. It wasn't a gi, which surprised him, although it shouldn't. His old friend didn't train as obsessively these days, and had a whole other wardrobe of hybrid Namekian human clothes that he donned almost randomly. Long sleeves and a high neck, all dark grey. He almost asked if they were pyjamas, but swallowed it. _Were they? No._

Gohan gestured to the staircase and they both descended. It was after nine and the living room would be warmer with the fire, rather than the chilly single bedroom that Piccolo was probably itching to dart into. The fire was already on, and Gohan stoked the logs some, watching the flames lick and spit in reply.

That was six months ago. The demi Saiyan pushed black rimmed glasses up his nose and leaned back, thinking back to that halting conversation with his best friend, in front of a roaring fire. Trying to focus, he typed confidently, having done it so many times before. Seventy four percent would be the overall mark he'd give this essay, an admirable effort from an energetic student who had nervously handed it in, one day late, and over email. An alarmingly charming rhetoric about events that were now history, but like yesterday in his mind, digital in reality. How he missed paper.

Piccolo's Chi had last been sensed five weeks, 6 days and approximately 12 hours ago.

Not for the first time, he felt bitterness well in the back of his throat. The Namek had played him so beautifully that night it might even be poetic. Gently placating Gohan in the warm ember light, making empty promises to his old student, humming tunes of mended bridges to the aging Saiyan and all the while, in the air, the scent of sweet oranges and vanilla. Closing the laptop, he sighed and took the glasses off. Strong fingers rubbed at his nose and squeezed, as if the indents would actually smooth out and the burning sensation would disappear. Vegeta's energy echoed far ahead of his arrival, always meaningful. Saiyan boots landed and Gohan smiled at the sight of the blue and white uniform through the living room window. Vegeta had long since dressed in human clothes, a respectful nod to his late wife perhaps, but this? This was business. They had both searched with Eighteen and even Seventeen, Goten, Pan and Bra joined in when they could, everyday for three weeks. After that Gohan had reluctantly agreed to scout once a week, though his mind did it every day, sometimes actively, sometimes in memory. The smaller Saiyan had said it plainly, though he fancied a sad sort of anger in his words. He'd even used his name. _It's becoming less likely that we'll find him alive, Gohan._

It's not like the words needed saying, he already knew well what logic dictates. But he also knew that he would know. Piccolo's death would be like a sudden impact, he would have felt it. Unless he did just fade away, softly and gently _, like putting out a match._

He thought of those ruby pink abdominals, how withered they'd be in his death, his corpse a silent whisper of the man that once was. _Stop it._

Vegeta waited outside, his white boots solid against fluttering wildflowers and insects cluttering in the soil beneath him. This garden had been a fine one, at one time, Videl had grown green fingers in her later years but it now lay in disrepair. A lot like they did, he supposed. Waiting for the half Saiyan brat would take time, as it always did, and he crossed burly arms in thought. The vainer part of him wondered if his greying hair was more evident in this glaring sunshine, and did it look as dank as he felt. Was he still handsome? A female friend of Bra's had flirted with him today, he was almost certain of it. In an almost outlandish contrast, a part of him also thought of how much time Gohan had left; this situation had made the younger man's heart take another spluttering plunge into the erratic. _Younger._ That word had meant something else at one time.

Now it just resonated with watching your loved ones grow up, wither and die. He had another word for it. _Borrowed time._

A butterfly came near and he leaned back, away from its obnoxious brightness, fine lines creasing as he did. He had grown an enduring affection for his rival's spawn, even thought of him for no reason at all sometimes, but it didn't live in the same place as the affection he had for the Namek. Piccolo was his equal in so many ways, had been to the darker side, had fought with him in the glory days, had absolutely no interest in people and their crap, had so much time to come to do exactly that. The stoic Saiyan swallowed unwelcome emotion as he waited, more patiently now he had so many years on his back.

 _You had better be alive you fucking, stupid Namek._

Even if just it saved from Gohan living out his final years in absolute total despair. Eighteen landed next to him in a graceful wisp, as he thought of the younger Saiyan, and the grass barely registered her. Black trainers, grey jeans with a pale pink shirt and silver jacket made her look exactly as young as the day he had met her. He'd begrudge it if he had the energy, but Vegeta hadn't slept since this whole fiasco started. Since he had plunged into the depths of the Eastern sealine to find the entirely problematic and apparently emotionally complex Namekian. Here they were now, mounting yet another search effort because of the one thing he had tried to keep at arm's length. _Love._ He hid a smile. _How human we have become._

Eighteen glanced at the smaller man, although he fell just below her height, she knew it riled him as much today as it always did. Gohan would be out soon, he always took his time, faffing with things that don't matter no doubt. Not that she was any different, having spent the afternoon filling out elaborate paperwork to have her great, great Granddaughter admitted to a good school when she turned four in one year's time. A moment ago it had been Marron. Those childish, large blue eyes bobbed around in her mind, and for a moment, but not the first time, the sight of her beautiful daughter wasn't clear anymore. She thumbed the gold necklace adorning her gentle, sharp collarbone, fondly. Inside, an image of Krillin and her daughter frozen in time. The perfect husband she had not deserved. The man who was so full of honor and goodwill, that he would be here right now if he were not instead in the ground. Together with his friends, Goku, Yamucha and Tien, Puar and Chiaotzu, Master Roshi and that comical pig, Oolong. Fists clenched and ready to find their friend. A friend who clearly hadn't known just how very loved he was.

The blonde had become quite the matriarch in her family and adored it, in her own cool, calm way. Vegeta didn't think she'd changed much for it though, although he didn't think any of them had. He spared her a glance, a smile in the blank expression there, and she returned it. Her voice was demanding as it fell across the garden, shouting for Gohan to hurry up.

The three of them jumped into the air, headed to the Tsurumai-Tsuburi mountains. A place that Gohan had avoided mostly, although Eighteen had started searching there independently. Once Vegeta had spilled the story of Piccolo and the drowning incident, she had quickly realised that the Namek was on a very self destructive merry go round. He was still very strong, with an ego and self belief system that was borderline narcissistic to boot, so she figured he would go to the one place that might be able to beat him. For weeks they had scoured the forests, the deserts, the West and East oceans and everything in between.

Vegeta had refused to wear warm clothes and snarled at Gohan, who was flying competently despite the oversized thick winter jacket, scarf, woolly hat and gloves. The demi Saiyan's spirits were high, even though he felt so lost without Piccolo, a character in his life so integral that he wondered if there was even a story to tell without him. Eighteen had suggested this with exuberance, some evidence her sharp blue eyes had spotted, and he tried so hard not to get his hopes up. It hadn't worked. This was the first lead they'd had.

Mountain air began to bite terribly as they neared, the air drying and feeling light as they ascended to the North's hostile hills. The night seemed closer up here, like endless twilight and bad weather all mixed up in a way that said 'stay away'. Gohan landed on a high peak, noticing that Vegeta and Eighteen landed on the one to his right. He smirked. _Like best buddies them two._ Actually it had been three, together with Piccolo, before he had gone off the grid with a dramatic 'fuck you' a couple of years ago. Gohan was Piccolo's best friend hands down, but they were something else, equally important. _His people._

He tried to think, deeply searching with his mind for any sign of his mentor, aching desperately for a sign. The search began, and be damned if he was leaving without Piccolo, dead or alive.

Piccolo felt them arrive somewhere in the back of his fevered mind. A dreadfully long time later, mahogany eyes so warm they made a mockery of their surroundings blurred into his vision. So close, if he could, he might have cried.

 **Until next time.**

 **W.**


End file.
